Crotchy McCrotchy Face. (Pregnancy week 5.)

His crinkled frowny face was a mixture of ‘what the hell were you thinking?!?!?’ And ‘don’t you worry your pretty little head, one way or another we will sort this.’

He isn’t Texan.

My GP surgery is not in the mid-west of America. (Much to my dismay, due to my continued desire and to pick up a Yanky twang or two.)

Alas no, my doctor is thigh slappingly British and appears relatively stiff with it, soooo I have no idea why I imagined his facial expression to communicate with me as a ranch owning cowboy boot clicking spurs wearing Robert Redford lookalike, but such is my ‘imagination.’

I sat down in front of him and nodded.

‘It’ll be fine.’

He put his arms behind his head momentarily and exhaled, probably contemplating  the magnitude of the task at hand. Thing is, he didn’t lean back or anything with it, so essentially he was just sat upright in front of me, showing me his pits.

His sweat stains were shaped like North America. (Told you. OBSESSED.)

I tried not to look at them directly and instead focused on his crotch, WAIT NO, DON’T LOOK AT HIS CROTCH -WHAT THE HOLY FUCK JUST HAPPENED!!

He saw me look at it his knob shape, then we made eye contact.

So much fun.

He pulled his arms down and crossed his legs, turning rapidly towards the computer.

‘So holy shit balls, I am pregnant.’ I slapped my thighs in an attempt to cover the AWKWARD.

‘Yes you are.’ He boomed, and also slapped his thigh. Which did not cover the Awkward at all, not even one little bit.

So then I did the only thing seemingly left to do and accidentally LOOKED AT HIS CROTCH AGAIN. GOOD GOD WOMAN STOP LOOKING AT THE DR’S CROTCH!

He turned around again and began feigning interest in the computer screen.

Kill me. Kill me now.

‘SO. Let’s talk about medication…’ he coughed ‘you are on high doses of a few different happy pills at the moment you mad bitch, and as we don’t want you going mad again, because let’s face it last time you cost the nhs and Bupa thousands, I think we should put together a plan.’ (This is not a verbatim quote.)

I’ll be honest, I don’t remember much else as I spent the next 20 minutes telling myself not to look at his penis while focusing on a box of tissues on his desk.

It’s good though. (Not his penis. I mean it might be but I … let’s move on.)

I am not sure I managed to convince him I am stable but we did agree I could come off medication in a staged and timely manner, if I wanted to. (Which I do.)

The NHS are going to take my psychological care seriously though, unlike last time.

I have been referred to see the head mental woman at St Mary’s and if I need any help I am to ring the bat phone and I am assuming batman in a white coat will come running.

It will be fine.

It’ll all be fine.



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